It’s hard to keep track of time in a room with no windows or clocks. It’s always daytime in my room, so the only way I know to keep track is based on my sleeping.

But I’m not really sleeping. When I do, I dream about Noah coming to me. I dream about him touching my body, gently and slowly as my back arches and I moan. I dream about him wrapping his hands around my throat and squeezing, but instead of screaming, I beg him for more.

I wake up, sweating, scared, and strangely aroused.

I feel better after I eat. The hangover feeling is gone and I can think straight. I can make it into the bathroom, too, which is a huge relief. I feel more human as I sit there, back against the wall, wrapped in the thin scratchy blanket.

I want to plot my escape, but so far it seems impossible. I’m not strong enough to break my chains and he was careful when he set this room up. Even if I did remove the chain, I have no way of getting on the elevator. Just from watching him I figured out that it only works based on his thumbprint.

Trying to plan my escape only distracts me for so long. Between the moments where I’m plotting, I sometimes can see my father’s body slumped in the tub, slowly draining of blood.

It should disturb me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore, at least. At first it terrified and upset me, but now it just makes me feel excited. I was angry at first, but now I’m happy that Noah killed my father. He deserved it and Noah did the world a favor by taking my father from it.

I just wish he hadn’t thrown me into this prison.

As I lean back against the wall, the elevator suddenly dings. I can’t help but feel excited as the doors open and Noah steps into the room wearing dark jeans, a dark t-shirt, and carrying another tray.

“Dinner time,” he says, placing the tray down in front of me. It’s soup again, this time something thick and creamy, plus a cup of water.

Greedily, I grab the water and down it. He smiles and fills me another cup from the bathroom tap as I start in on the soup.

“Good,” he says. “Eat. I’ll be back.”

I’m too busy eating to say anything. He disappears, but I barely notice. I finish the soup like an animal, not caring about manners or taking my time, just trying to get some nourishment. A few minutes later, the elevator dings again and slide open.

Noah steps into the room dragging a mattress behind him. I watch as he drags it and places it against the far wall near the bathroom. He goes back into the elevator and returns with a pillow and several more blankets, piling them onto the twin mattress.

I sit there unmoving, watching him, surprised. I didn’t expect him to bring me a mattress. I thought I might be overstepping when I asked for a blanket, but apparently he does care about my comfort.

“I have a change of clothes for you, too,” he says, standing over me. “So strip.”

I stare at him, surprised. “Strip?”

“Yes. I need to wash what you have on.”

I look away, blushing. Why is my heart beating so fast? This man is a murderer, a killer, and the man that’s keeping me locked away. I shouldn’t blush when he asks me to take off my clothes. I should feel angry.

Instead, I feel excitement coursing through my veins. It’s a completely unfamiliar to me, since I’d been practically locked away by my father for so long, and it’s almost overwhelming. I have to look away from him and control my breathing.

When I look back, he’s smirking at me and crouching down within arm’s reach.

“Go ahead, my pet,” he says softly. “Strip.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“If I do, will you undress for me?”

I open my mouth, close it, and then nod.

“Okay then. What should I call you?”

“Amelia.”

“That’s no fun.”

“None of this is fun for me.”

His smile slowly fades. “I’ll make it fun for you, sugar. All you have to do is let me.”

I glare at him, my excitement slowly replaced with anger. He doesn’t own me and I won’t give in to him. Those gorgeous eyes stare at me, practically undressing me, and I know what he wants. Maybe part of me wants it too, but that doesn’t matter.

“Turn around,” I say.

He stands and walks a few feet away before facing me and crossing his arms. “No.”

I stand up. “Asshole.”

“Undress, sugar.”

Slowly, I pull off my shirt. He watches me the whole time. I toss it aside and remove my bra. My nipples harden instantly as they hit the cold basement air. His eyes never leave my body and a hungry, intense smirk chases across his lips.

I cover my breasts with one arm and finish pulling off my sweatpants and panties. I kick them off and they slide down the chain. I stand there, completely naked, trying to be defiant but failing.

“Good girl,” he says. He walks over to my bedding, grabs me a blanket, and brings it over. I wrap it around my body gratefully as he bends down and unshackles my ankle. His fingers graze my skin gently and he glances up at him. A shiver runs down my spine.

He slides my clothes off the chain and tosses them into a pile. I watch, completely unmoving, as he puts the manacle back on my ankle. When he finishes, he stands back and looks at me for a second. I try to meet his gaze but I have to look away as a wave of excitement washes over me.

“I’ll be back,” he says, and disappears back upstairs.

I sit there, wrapped in the blanket, heart beating fast.

There’s a large part of me that loved having his eyes on my body. I liked that he commanded me to undress, as messed up as that might sound. I turn my back to the elevator, trying to keep myself under control.

I’m so pathetic. I’m sick. There must be something broken inside of me if I’m enjoying part of this. I’m so starved for attention that I’m melting over this attractive bastard.

I have to get myself under control. If I want to get away and stay alive, I can’t just turn into a pathetic wet mess every time he speaks to me. He may be handsome and intense, but I have to ignore that.

He returns in a few minutes with a change of clothes for me. There’s a pair of tapered sweatpants and a comfortable-looking sweatshirt. He kneels in front of me, removes the manacle, and stands back again. I pull it all on gratefully, and he watches me get dressed. Once I’m covered, he puts the chain back on. We go through all of this in silence, though his eyes never once leave my body.

“Is that all you’re going to do now?” I ask him, finally breaking the tension. “Watch me dress and undress?”

“Maybe,” he says. “If you weren’t enjoying it, I’d stop.”

“I’m not enjoying it,” I say.

“Liar.” There’s that filthy smirk again. I want to wipe it off his face. “I’ll be back soon, sugar.”

“Don’t call me that, either,” I call after him lamely as he goes back into the elevator and returns upstairs.

I stare at the closed doors for a minute then curse myself. I’m so pathetic I can barely stand it.

I walk over to my mattress and curl up on it, piling the blankets on top of me. For the first time since coming to this place, I feel safe and comfortable, even though it’s just an illusion.

Noah is a bastard, but a beautiful one. It’s hard to despise him like I should. He killed my father and freed me from that prison, but he threw me into this new one. He’s trying to make me more comfortable, and there is a part of me that understands his dilemma. But I can’t give in to that. I can’t let him break me.

I’ll fight him to the bitter end. Even if it feels so much better not to.